Ode To A Parisian Gypsy
by Rose7
Summary: HoNDClopin fic. Two wandering gypsies chance upon the Court of Miracles and discover the dark underbelly of Paris.
1. Arrivez

Disclaimer: I don't own any of the fine characters in Victor Hugo's book, nor do I own any of the fine interpretations of them in Disney's film.  
  
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I fly.  
  
Or rather, I feel as though I fly. The crowd around me blends into a whirl of color and rounded blurs of faces. They are not here for my dancing. There are far better dancers than I. Gypsy dancers are a dime a dozen. To make any money being one, you must be exceptionally good or pathetically bad.  
  
They are more interested in the fact that I am whirling about while playing a fiddle. The tune is simple enough to the trained ear, but to these uncultured Parisians the feat is masterful. Every note rings clear in my head, and I can hear nothing else. I continue my dervish-like dance about the cobblestones.  
  
I hear the clink of coins hitting the stones and smile to myself. It's just as well. My fingers are beginning to go numb. Finally I end the show, making a grand curtsy as though it were a performance by a great master. The small crowd applauds, tossing more coins my way.  
  
"Show your appreciation, Monsieurs and Madams!" My elder brother Ferdain calls out, not bothering to get up from his resting spot but quite willing to collect all the money. He also pronounces Monsieur wrong, and I resist the urge to laugh at him.  
  
"I do believe you've sold your soul to the devil, Evalyne." Ferdain laughs after the crowd has gone. "A brand new city, barely hours old to us, and you've already collected breakfast for us." I smiled back at him.  
  
True enough, we have only just arrived in Paris this morning. But of course, we had to flee somewhere from Italy. The Guards of the Pope would have had our heads if they had known how much money Ferdain had slipped from their pockets.  
  
"Perhaps you should sell yours as well. Maybe then the devil would not stand for you being incurably lazy as I have." Ferdain rolls his eyes and yawns, scratching his stomach.  
  
A brilliant thief my brother may be, but only when the fit is upon him. The rest of the time there is no lazier creature upon the earth. His stomach has a slight pouch, which is surprising considering how little gypsies manage to eat. His face is scruffy and barely shaven. The black hair lies in a matted curly mess atop his round head. He is a coward without a bone for hard work, but he has a noble conscience and for this I love him.  
  
Despite the fact that I am now panting with exhaustion from winning our income.  
  
"Well, what shall we do now, Evalyne? I don't mind telling you I'm horribly hungry." He asks me, dependant as though I were his mother rather than his younger sister.  
  
"I don't know, Ferdain. I thought you were the one who had been to Paris before." He shrugs his shoulders.  
  
"That was at least 9 years ago. It is as new to you as it is to me." Ferdain and I go through the same routine in every city; perform for the money, find the resident gypsies, and eventually move on once Ferdain gets us into trouble. Which he always does.  
  
I try to pin my dark brown hair back up. It's become a wild nest of tangles from my dancing and violent playing.  
  
Of course I am pretty. Ferdain and I would have been dead long ago had I not been.  
  
This is nothing new among gypsies. Those women who wish to earn a coin must be. I am only one of a thousand, and it is nothing special. It comes from not having much to eat and constantly having to run from various threats.  
  
"How much do we have then?" Ferdain groans in disgust.  
  
"Barely enough. It looks like much more when they are all wildly tossing it at you." I place my fiddle protectively under my arm and we cross to another section of street. A group of children are focused around a cart.  
  
Perfect. Children are always unwittingly generous with whatever coins they have on them.  
  
I begin to play an enticing little tune. This is my talent. I am no great singer, no spectacular dancer, no wonderful acrobatic. I beguile no one with myself. Without my fiddle, the great extension of my body, I am nothing but another pretty gypsy.  
  
Some children turn, nudging their friends and pointing at the new spectacle.  
  
"The song will only get better if you come closer, children!" Ferdain calls out. They all instantly abandon the cart and run over. Ferdain is a child at heart and is very adept at attracting more of them.  
  
The children begin to toss coins, and I hop over each coin, trying to avoid tripping over it. They clap in delight that I am able to do this and still continue my bright little melody, and toss more coins. Unwittingly I've created a new game.  
  
I whirl about and the song is cut short when my fiddle knocks into a tall man standing among them.  
  
I notice his brightly colored jester costume immediately, the gold ring hanging from his ear. Unwittingly I've stolen business from a fellow gypsy.  
  
A few hours in a new city and already I've gotten Ferdain and myself into trouble, even without Ferdain's usual help.  
  
The gypsy man is tall and lean, wiry, but obviously a spry acrobat. Jet black hair, straight and dark, pokes out from under his hat. Two black eyes stare at me with superiority, but there is a broad smile on his long face.  
  
"A thief! A thief!" I hear a high little voice cry. For a moment I think it is one of the children, but suddenly I am face to face with a little puppet, carved to the likeness of the man in front of me.  
  
"A thief?" The man says melodramatically. "Where?"  
  
"Her! She's a horrible gypsy thief!" He tapped the puppet on the head.  
  
"Hush, you silly Puppet. No gypsy is a thief!" He winks at me.  
  
"Yes! She has stolen all my admirers!" The little Puppet is made to cry, and all the children crowd around, delighted.  
  
"No thief could steal the admirers from you, Puppet, nor your gracious master, for he is the King of all Gypsies! It is merely another Gypsy spellbinder, nothing more!" He says triumphantly.  
  
"Perhaps, little Puppet," I say, "It is neither thievery nor spells. Perhaps your master cannot keep hold of his audience." I tap the Puppet affectionately on the head.  
  
This arrogant gypsy has a cart. He can afford the loss of a few coins to some newcomers. I always instantly justify my actions to myself, and never look back upon them.  
  
"Evalyne-"Ferdain starts nervously.  
  
"She is a sharp little thing, Puppet, yes?" The man says to his wooden companion. "We shall see how sharp she is when her admirers are no longer hers."  
  
"Come children!" The man says.  
  
"Come!" Puppet repeats.  
  
"For I've a new story to tell you-"  
  
"New!"  
  
"Full of adventure, and excitement-"  
  
"Exciting!"  
  
"And no spellbinding fiddlers to distract you!"  
  
"No thieves!"  
  
The little children begin to follow. I smile. This game can be won easily. I have beaten parents, other children, wild spectacles in the street. Children's attentions can be diverted so easily.  
  
I play them a wild tune, so loud and exciting that they cannot help but listen. They all turn back, but stay where they are, lost between the promise of a new story and this new musical gypsy. I hear a broad laugh, and watch in astonishment and the tall gypsy man begins to flip about the square. He somersaults, leaps and twists about, contorts and dances, utilizing every inch of his body and every object around him to create a dazzling show of acrobatics.  
  
Fine. If he wishes to try and steal coins from me, I'll not let them go without a fight.  
  
I speed up my song. He speeds up his performance.  
  
I go faster. The man has insatiable energy. He bounds and leaps from one trick to another, grinning breathlessly at me in between.  
  
I am flying now, my arm entirely numb, but I do not care. The man keeps the smile, though it begins to look forced. He must be getting tired.  
  
A sudden sharp whip to my cheek sends me reeling backwards, and I hit a sour note. One of my strings has snapped. The game is over. The thin man laughs in delight, bowing grandly.  
  
"A definite pleasure, no? To compete but to lose! Take heart, Cherie, for you have lost to the best!" I glare at him as he cartwheels out of sight.  
  
"Evalyne, you fool!" Ferdain says, grasping my arm and pulling me away from the square. "Do you know who you nearly disgraced?"  
  
"Certainly nothing more than another gypsy acrobat. A horribly arrogant one at that." Ferdain shakes his head sorrowfully. I'm used to my brother overreacting. This time will be no different.  
  
"Evalyne, that was Clopin Trouillefou- the King of the Gypsies!" I laugh.  
  
"Surely you weren't taken in by his boastful claims? And how do you know his name anyhow?"  
  
"You remembered I visited years ago."  
  
"You remember the King of the Gypsies, but not the layout of the streets." I say, still laughing. I no more believe that wiry acrobat King of the Gypsies any more than I think myself the Queen of France.  
  
"Well, Ferdain, if you are so wise, maybe you can tell us where this King and his Court are?" Ferdain scratches his head for a moment.  
  
It is hard for him to remember such things as visits to Paris. These are things he did with our father. Our father who is now dead, along with our mother. Gypsies do not last long when they are as stubborn and overzealous as our parents were.  
  
Another would say, pity me. I say envy me, for I have survived at 19, with a lazy brother of 24 no less.  
  
"I believe I do." He says suddenly, in surprise, as if he didn't think he would actually remember.  
  
"Where then?" For once, Ferdain leads the way, and for once I am glad to follow.  
  
Any gathering place of gypsies is a wonderful place to be, even if it's for as short a time as I think Ferdain and I will be here. 


	2. La Cour Des Miracles

"Is that Ferdain Collioure?" A young gypsy calls out as soon as we are in the Parisian Court, the Court of Miracles as it's called. My brother runs off. This happens nearly everywhere. At least one gypsy in every city knows my brother, a result of his travels with our father. One would expect this to make Ferdain a helpful companion in traveling, but it has taken us until dusk to finally locate this encampment.  
  
This Court is underground, in the deep catacombs of Paris. Most gypsy hideaways are in underground or remote places; caves or abandoned churches and the like. This one is exceptionally large. Everyone has a tent, and every tent looks like its own little home. Clearly this is a Court of resident gypsies. I simply walk in alone, clutching my fiddle, my only possession, close to me. Several glance up at me. A newcomer is always interesting, even to people as interesting in themselves as the gypsies.  
  
"And who are you, young one? Did I see you enter with that lazy devil Ferdain Collioure?" One woman asks me. I smile.  
  
"Sadly I am his companion. Sadder yet, I am his sister. Evalyne Collioure, to my great shame." This causes a laugh among the women, and I sit down among a few of them.  
  
"Welcome. I hope you find a place among us, and perhaps prod that brother of yours into bringing home a few coins. I am Antessa." The woman who greeted me says, and I instantly like her, with her dark looks and her bright eyes, despite the age in her face.  
  
"I doubt we will be staying for long. I may have gotten myself into trouble already."  
  
"You mean Ferdain has not done it for you?" I laugh.  
  
"This time the fault lies with me. I may have stolen a few coins from some arrogant acrobat who believes himself your King." Antessa pokes herself with the needle she is sewing with and looks up in astonishment.  
  
"Not Clopin?"  
  
"Is that what he's called?" I answer back. Antessa laughs.  
  
"Dear girl, you've a lot to learn if you are to stay with us for any amount of time. That 'arrogant acrobat' surely is the King of the Gypsies, and a just and fair one if I do say so myself. I doubt anyone could steal coins from that one, for he'd charm them right back out of you and steal more besides." I could not picture being charmed out of anything by that spry man. Perhaps dizzied by his constant motion.  
  
"I doubt I shall run into him again, in any case. I've learned my lesson about distracting his audience."  
  
"Well! I see you've now begun to steal my subjects as well!" I hear that bright, loud voice behind me, and can instantly recognize it although I've only heard it once before. His is a voice you cannot mistake. I turn around. Clopin, the King of the Gypsies as he supposedly is, stands over me, grinning and pulling at the goatee on his chin.  
  
"I am glad to see you no longer need your Puppet friend to speak for you as a King." I reply with an equal smile.  
  
"Still sharp, even to a King in his own Court!" He muses aloud to himself. He seats himself among us, sneaking a piece of bread from the basket of one of the other women.  
  
"Where do you come from, then, Cherie? The sharp little fiddler with the lazy brother must be from somewhere quite interesting, no?" I raise my eyebrows. He is King, but a nosy king as well. I almost laugh when I notice his long large nose, not horribly ugly, but the feature that the rest of his face is built off.  
  
"You know quite a bit about me already, Clopin."  
  
"You apparently have learned my name, but I have yet to learn yours." I realize he is flirting. I don't care. He will get nowhere. I may encourage him, but in the end he'll be refused and I'll laugh.  
  
"Evalyne."  
  
"A lovely name, no? So well conceals that sharp little bite." Clopin says, poking me in the cheek with his long fingers.  
  
Men such as this always think there is no woman who can resist them. I always think there are no such men I can resist more.  
  
"That's a fine instrument you have." He says, running his fingers over the lines of the scroll.  
  
"It is my only love." He raises an eyebrow at me.  
  
"And yet you have broken it. You treat those you love in a strange manner, no?"  
  
"I have not broken it- You have caused it to break." Clopin puts his hand over his heart in mock shock.  
  
"I, Cherie? I welcome you into my kingdom, even allow you to steal a few coins from me, and yet I would break your fiddle?"  
  
This King has thus far shown no signs of being one. Only another gypsy rogue.  
  
"Clopin!" Clopin springs up to meet two gypsy men.  
  
"Yes?"  
  
"There are some guards poking about the catacombs. They may not be looking for anything, but then again they might." Clopin's long dark face takes on an entirely different look than the playful sort he has been giving to me. Somehow that broad smile turns into a straight mull of concern; the black eyes grow narrower in thought.  
  
It's a swift transformation and maybe even a little frightening that such a golden, happy creature can suddenly become one of responsibility and strength.  
  
"Excuse me, fair ladies!" He says with a flourish, and as he turns around his face is instantly the smile it was a moment ago, as if he had never talked to the men.  
  
"I must go. Antessa, see that this little fiddler doesn't get into any trouble. She looks as though she is good at finding it." He bows, tickling my nose with the feather on his hat before bounding off with the other two men.  
  
Gypsy Kings. At the very least they are amusing, either for their energy or for their dullness.  
  
I make my way among the tents and gypsies to find Ferdain.  
  
My brother has already gotten himself quite drunk, and he stands up to greet me, wavering and barely looking at me.  
  
"Evalyne.I think I shall enjoy Paris." He slurs.  
  
"I've no doubt you will." I reply dryly. 


	3. Defi

The cheers of the gypsies are loud and raucous, clapping and demanding more. Dozens are up, dancing and whirling about, their faces red with the heat of it.  
  
My fingers are numb, and I smile. This only means that I am truly beginning to play.  
  
It is traditional for the newcomers to show what they can do. Only then can they be seen as gypsies who are traveling and need the companionship of their fellow gypsies, rather than lazy, homeless wanderers. As Ferdain has no talents to speak of, I am playing for the Court of Miracles.  
  
And my playing is going quite well. There are no other fiddlers. A man with a lute, another with a horn, one more with a pair of sticks and a good sense of rhythm. We make a good group.  
  
Once one gypsy begins to show off, the fever takes them all. All around us are dancers, singers, fantastic acrobats and tricksters having a wild party with each other.  
  
And I am in the middle, providing the soundtrack. As soon as I finish one song they beg for another, possibly faster and better than the last.  
  
I am happy to oblige them. The noise in here is so loud that it is surprising the entire Parisian guard doesn't find us on our volume alone. But I hear only my fiddle, see only my fingers moving at the end of it.  
  
The crowd begins to cheer loudly. I glance up.  
  
Clopin himself, arrogant King that he is, has decided to join in from wherever he was. He leaps about, flipping off of everything-and everyone- around him.  
  
"Certainly you all must thank Ferdain!" He cries out, pulling the slightly more sober Ferdain to his feet. "We all thought this boy is lazy! Useless! Indolent and a tax on any gypsy's purse, no?" Ferdain opens his mouth to protest.  
  
"But now!" Clopin continues, "We must all thank him for the one talent he has shown us: Bringing the best little fiddler in all of France to our court!" The crowd cheers.  
  
I begin to see why Clopin the arrogant, confident, tricksy acrobat is a beloved leader of gypsies. He is consistently entertaining, cheerful, keeps them all on their toes. Gypsies live on their toes, but Clopin keeps them so without their actually having to use them.  
  
And there is a golden, magical quality to his voice, much like that storyteller lilt that drew in the children in the square.  
  
He pauses and steps in front of me, much taller and his lean form making him even more so. I do not halt my playing.  
  
"Evalyne, would you care to show these fine ladies and gentlemen that you are capable of more than simply your fiddling?" Black eyes dare me to try and beat him in his own kingdom.  
  
I won't refuse. I smile at him.  
  
He bows.  
  
I curtsy. I get applause to this simple feat of curtsying while I am playing. If they enjoy this, wait until they see what I can really do.  
  
He takes a step to the left. I follow.  
  
Right. I follow.  
  
He does them in succession. I follow.  
  
Come now, acrobat and King. Challenge me.  
  
He begins a little two step dance and does not stop. I pick it up and follow.  
  
The crowd ooh's and ahh's over the feat. If they knew how simple it is when the instrument is merely an extension of your hands, then they would not admire it so greatly.  
  
As it is my unique talent, they do admire it.  
  
Clopin whirls about in a circle. I follow, making only a slight jump in the music.  
  
"Oh, so you can dance, little fiddler?" He laughs. "Join us then, if you can keep up!" He begins to jump and dance about the floor. I tighten my grip on my fiddle and follow.  
  
Keep the speed even. Keep the notes correct. DO NOT break a string. DO NOT slow down. DO NOT give him an inch.  
  
I feel the people around me become blurs once again, and I hear their cheers and laughter as I dance with Clopin within the circle.  
  
At once I feel someone's warm hands about my waist.  
  
"Can you do as well, Cherie, when you are not entirely in control?" Clopin laughs in my ear. I merely smile back at him. He pulls me away from my natural rhythm, into a movement entirely his own, wild and spontaneous. My music grows wild.  
  
DO NOT lose, Evalyne. NOT to this gypsy King Clopin who has already beaten you today.  
  
I have the sudden feeling that he's going to toss me off, spiraling into the crowd, laughing as I fall over, holding his sides in pain and tears rolling down his eyes at the horrible sour notes that will fly out of my fiddle.  
  
Sure enough he twists me round so I nearly trip. I neatly end the song and plop onto a pile of pillows among the crowds.  
  
"I can do as well, Clopin, because I am always in control." I reply. Clopin takes off his hat and runs a hand through his straight black hair as if haughty over my win.  
  
"You will be the death of someone in this court, sharp little Evalyne." He says with a smile, wagging a finger at me. "Three cheers for the fiddler Evalyne!" The crowd happily responds.  
  
Clopin leaves them to their own devices and falls onto the pillows near me.  
  
"You seem determined not to be my friend, mademoiselle." He says mournfully.  
  
"And to be your friend must one lose to you?"  
  
"Clopin never loses!" It is the Puppet again. I smile at it.  
  
"Oh doesn't he?" The Puppet shakes its head vigorously.  
  
"No! He is the King! He can't lose!"  
  
"Oh, but anyone can lose, little Puppet. Even Kings."  
  
"He is too charming, too handsome!" I roll my eyes and get up.  
  
"He is too confident." I walk off in no particular direction, since I have no where to retreat to. Ferdain has neglected to tell me where we are staying. But I will not let King Clopin know this, so I continue walking off.  
  
In some direction, any direction.  
  
"You do not like me very much, do you, Evalyne?" Clopin says, walking backwards in front of me, carefully stepping over everything in his path.  
  
I smile. I may want to run from this charming man, but I cannot frown when plastered on his face is a bright, unflinching grin.  
  
"I do not hate you very much either, Clopin, so don't despair."  
  
"Despair? Moi? Never. I find you quite interesting, however, and-"  
  
Interesting?  
  
Not only is this King an arrogant trickster, he is also a ladies man trying to win his way with the new gypsy beauty.  
  
I know them like the back of my hand.  
  
"And what is so interesting, Clopin?" I say, stopping and waiting for what I know will come.  
  
"Ah, Cherie, that face-"  
  
And those eyes.  
  
"Those enticing dark brown eyes-"  
  
The hair.  
  
"A lovely cascade of dark hair-"  
  
The vivacity, which of course means how wild I might be in bed.  
  
"The glow of energy and vitality!" He finishes, as if I've just been treated to a spectacular compliment that he has never given to any other.  
  
Oh Clopin, how easy you are to read.  
  
"What is it you want, Clopin? To find out how interesting I may be in other areas?" I jut my hip up against him suggestively.  
  
Now is the part where he puts his arm around me, assents, and tries to kiss me. I wait, but Clopin merely frowns.  
  
"Oh, little fiddler," He says, sighing. "I merely want to find out if there is anything more to you besides those bewitching tunes you play." He plucks a few strings on my fiddle. I pull it out of his reach.  
  
"There is a lazy brother and a normal gypsy girl. Nothing more. Lavish your attentions on someone who desires them." He laughs.  
  
"They may desire them, but do they deserve them? You on the other hand, Evalyne, seem to do neither, but that only makes you more interesting."  
  
"And once you get me, you shall leave me in favor of another who does not favor you." He shrugs.  
  
"In all likelihood, Cherie."  
  
Well. At least he is honest.  
  
"But that doesn't mean we cannot enjoy each other's company while you still hate me, yes?" He says, leaning in close to me.  
  
For a moment I want to smile back at him. I could enjoy his company while I am here. God knows I'll be leaving soon enough.  
  
Then I remember every other city we've stopped in. Friends I make and betray. Hearts I break and lovers I've left behind, sometimes callously.  
  
You cannot build a life and then leave it. You must take it with you. To do that you must stop leaving pieces of yourself wherever you go.  
  
I back away from Clopin and run off. It does not bother him. I can hear him laughing away to himself behind me. 


	4. La Confession Du Peche

I awaken to the sounds of my brother's snores.  
  
"Ferdain!" I hiss. He jolts out of his sleep.  
  
"What," He mutters irritably. "Are you doing here?"  
  
"I am your sister, Ferdain. Do you not remember that we have been traveling together all our lives? Or are you feeling too poorly from last night to remember much of anything."  
  
"I thought perhaps you'd be in Clopin's tent." I cuff him behind the ear. He groans into the pillow.  
  
"What a thing to say, you wicked boy!" He laughs weakly.  
  
"I am older than you, Evalyne, in case you forgot. And besides, was it that large of a presumption? He's obviously ready to add you to his innumerable list of conquests. You seem to tolerate him reasonably well. I thought you'd be more than willing to add him to your own list."  
  
A person who could not face the truth about themselves might hate my brother for this. He is right enough. If a gypsy here were to call me a whore, they would not be entirely mistaken. I have had my share of men and romances, or complete lack of romances and simply the men. And it is true that I only have to tolerate them to allow them the other pleasures.  
  
These things tend to happen when your parents are dead and your only guardian is a horribly lazy older brother who gives you neither supervision nor discipline.  
  
But I am repentant, older, wiser. Responsibility will do that to you.  
  
"A fool who understands nothing, as usual, Ferdain. Are you getting up to help me today, or will I be collecting our breakfast alone?" Ferdain pushes himself up from the blankets he lies upon.  
  
"Give me a bit to drag myself out, Evalyne, but I promise I'll be there." I exit the tent of one of Ferdain's friends, a single boy who decided that one as lazy as Ferdain would not make a horrible mess of his tent, since he has not even the energy to make a mess let alone clean it up.  
  
Antessa, the dark yet friendly woman I met the night before, sits outside of her tent, mending some article of clothing.  
  
"Morning, sharp little girl!" She calls out. I hold back a smirk. Nicknames do catch on quickly here.  
  
"I see you've a morning of work ahead of you." She smiles.  
  
"Wait until you marry. You will have no time for that fiddle or anything else." I hold my head up high.  
  
"I will never marry if it means I'll have to lay my only love down." She laughs.  
  
"That is a rare talent you have. I'll bet it saves you and your brother everywhere you go."  
  
Saves, no. Sustains, yes.  
  
"It is the only thing we possess. If I ever lose it, I'll have to marry."  
  
"Hasn't Ferdain anything useful?" I shrug.  
  
"He is a very good thief. Unfortunately his eyes are bigger than his stomach and he gets caught with what he takes."  
  
"Clopin would not be able to stand him." Antessa says, shaking her head.  
  
"Why?"  
  
"Clopin hates the constant accusation of gypsies being thieves. As long as we only steal when it is absolutely necessary or the person is deserving, he doesn't consider it a true accusation. Men like your brother irritate him to no end."  
  
"I didn't think it was possible to irritate him." She grins.  
  
"You do it quite well."  
  
Fine. I admittedly go out of my way to show up, be rude to, and generally make fun of Clopin. But I'm beginning to realize that there's only so much leniency that will be allowed a newcomer towards a King, even if that King can be irritating and even if that newcomer is a potential conquest.  
  
We are silent for a moment until Antessa picks the conversation back up.  
  
"How is it that you and Ferdain wander about the entire world by yourselves?" Antessa asks.  
  
"When I was 10, our parents were killed." I say it so plainly that Antessa pokes herself in the finger with her needle.  
  
I cannot be sad about it. It's been nearly 9 years. I have given the story to so many and felt the regrets and the sorrow so much that I'm almost immune to it.  
  
My mother and father died. As people die. As bold gypsies certainly die. Now I am with my brother, and I don't have the luxury of weeping over their deaths.  
  
"How?" I smile. This is the part of them that I am proud of.  
  
"They were not ones to simply back down from the prejudice of those around them. My father used to say that there would be a point that they could no longer allow themselves to be slowly degraded into nothing. The point came, and both my parents were killed because they said the wrong thing to a few guards." Antessa sighs, brushing back some of her black hair.  
  
"Such a sad story and yet you don't seem to worry about it. A good thing too. Hopefully you haven't inherited their ways with the guards."  
  
"God no. If I am afraid of anything, it's the guards with their inexhaustible hatred." She smiles again. It's hard not to smile in this Court, with its smiling King.  
  
"There are too many of us with a quick tongue and not a quick enough mind. It's good you have both and that you use the one before the other."  
  
"All right, Evalyne." Ferdain says, coming up behind me and rubbing his neck. "I'm damnably hungry. Let's go." I chuckle.  
  
"I'll see you later, Antessa." She waves as Ferdain and I walk off.  
  
"Try not to disgrace our King today! He'll be up there as well!" 


	5. Ennui Ivre

Fingers numb, head aching, but I am done for the day.  
  
The sun in quickly setting over the buildings of the city, and I want to get back to the Court and be with my fellow gypsies. Ferdain and I move around too often. I have only him, and after our entire lives together, irritating each other and knowing every little mood and idea we have in our heads, he is dull company.  
  
Antessa interests me. The life of a normal gypsy woman interests me: married, with children, never getting out, never having to perform for her coin.  
  
I love my fiddle, but I wish it was not my source of income as well as my only joy.  
  
"Wait!" Ferdain says, grabbing my arm and stopping in front of a bright tavern. "Evalyne, let's go in!"  
  
I know most of the ideas in my brother's head, and most of them are fool ones.  
  
"Already forgotten last night, have you?" I say a little angrily. Sometimes his foolishness makes me angry that I have to constantly watch him. "Besides, what makes you think they serve the likes of us?" He glares at me and throws his hands up in the air.  
  
"I have money and I want a drink. Why would they refuse me?" Ferdain learns nothing. He listens but doesn't understand. He sees things as he wishes to see them, not as they are.  
  
"No, Ferdain, I have money. You do not." His eyes grow pleading.  
  
"Fine." I sigh. He smirks, as if he's triumphed. I let him because he has nothing else to feel triumphant over.  
  
We enter the tavern. Surprisingly there are a number of gypsies already in it, mingled in with the common Parisians, though the two aren't associating. Ferdain immediately abandons me for the bar. I wander over to a seat near him and watch.  
  
And of course he should be here. Clopin Trouillefou, standing in the corner, surrounded by an audience as usual. They laugh loudly at whatever he's saying and pound their fists on the table, hold their sides in uproar.  
  
Of course it should be that he shows up wherever I go. Or perhaps it's just that there are few places in this city that gypsies can go and no matter which one I go to, he will be there.  
  
He notices me but does not halt in his tale for an instant. The black eyes sparkle with excitement as he raises and lowers his voice, whatever he is telling obviously getting interesting.  
  
"What'll you have, miss?" I hear a low voice say behind me, slightly laughing.  
  
"She would have answered you a moment or so ago," Ferdain says, "Had she not been occupied with our friend Clopin over there." The man with the low voice laughs. I turn to them.  
  
"Nothing at all, sir. I think I'll be carrying Ferdain home, so I best keep my wits about me." I reply quickly. Ferdain rolls his eyes and takes a swig of his drink.  
  
"Just sleep with the man and get it done with, Evalyne. Stop being so damned repentant." I glare at him.  
  
Why would I? Clopin is charming, surely. Golden and consistently cheerful.  
  
He is no great handsome man. He is lean and wiry, normal dark gypsy features. He is constantly teasing me even though he has only met me a few days ago. He is horribly arrogant. He is nothing I have not seen before.  
  
And what in the name of heaven is so interesting about me?  
  
I am another gypsy beauty. I am poor with a lazy brother. I play the fiddle like the devil. Perhaps better than the devil. I am stubborn, proud, and sometimes weak. I am nothing that he hasn't seen better examples of.  
  
"I am not going to jump into bed with every swaggering gypsy I meet, Ferdain. Especially not this one."  
  
"Just because he's had as many swaggering gypsies as you have? Please, Evalyne." Ferdain mutters, downing the rest of his drink and motioning for another.  
  
"Men throw themselves at you. Women throw themselves at him. Possibly you interest each other because neither of you are throwing yourselves at each other."  
  
"If you're so keen on the idea, why don't you go after him? Make yourself useful for a change." Ferdain makes as though he's going to spill his drink on my fiddle.  
  
"I've only just met the fool." I murmur.  
  
"You only just met all the other fools you've ever bedded, and that never stopped you. Besides, Clopin is a good deal less of a fool than the rest of them."  
  
I hate it when he talks like this. He only remembers that which makes a good story. My repentant, chaste-er self is not as interesting to him now, so he only recalls the days in which I was entirely wanton and free.  
  
"I am no type of fool at all." Clopin says in a dignified tone from between us. He stares at me with those bright eyes, arms folded in front of him and the curling feather in his hat making him look a cross between entertaining and mysterious. Ferdain watches me with half-drunken eyes.  
  
"You must forgive him. He is a perfect idiot. And on top of it, he's drunk." Ferdain groans and shakes his head, muttering to himself. Clopin perches atop one of the seats in between us, leaning back on his elbows.  
  
"You don't think me a fool." He says without any hint of teasing in his voice.  
  
"No, I don't think you a fool at all." He smiles.  
  
"Finally, a favor from the lovely Evalyne!" He eyes my fiddle lying atop the bar, surrounded by drinks and their owners.  
  
"You worship that piece of wood, yet you treat it as though it can take care of itself."  
  
"Is there a reason you like to criticize me so much?" He ignores my question and continues on.  
  
"What has brought you to Paris anyways? Surely you can gain a coin wherever you go." I look over at Ferdain, now drunkenly arguing with another man near him. Clopin follows my gaze and laughs.  
  
"Point taken, Cherie."  
  
"I won't be here for long."  
  
"Oh is that so?" He says, raising an eyebrow as if he doesn't believe me. "What if there was something to keep you here?"  
  
"And I suppose you think that something is you?" Clopin rolls his eyes.  
  
"Mademoiselle, I will stop trying to convince myself that you are merely playing hard to get. I think I shall abandon the idea of receiving a kiss from those pretty lips." He leans in, closer to me, so close that his goatee brushes against my chin.  
  
"Am I still permitted to talk to you despite this resignation?"  
  
A friendship with a man that will not ultimately lead to my breaking a heart. It's a new idea and I'm willing to try it.  
  
"You're very good at convincing people of something. Or persuading them. Or getting them entirely off the subject." He grins.  
  
"I would not be a very good King, much less a gypsy, if I wasn't a conniving trickster, would I?"  
  
"Clopin," The bartender with the low voice leans in again. "It's coming near the guards' time to be making their rounds. I suggest you and your people finish up." Clopin frowns.  
  
"Damned be the Parisian guard." He mutters under his breath. I shudder.  
  
I would not dream of cursing a guard, even behind his back. I am deathly afraid of anything with such an 'official' air about them.  
  
Clopin makes no move to leave.  
  
"You are truly a fool if you stay and wait for them to drag you out." I say, beginning to collect my things.  
  
"Don't tell me the sharp little fiddler will not stay and entertain the Parisian guards with her wit." Clopin says, eyes widening in amusement.  
  
"Only if I had a death wish."  
  
"I have no death wish, Cherie." He replies, inspecting his gloved hand with an air of indifference. "I simply don't have a habit of groveling to those burly apes."  
  
As if on cue, a group of black guards walks in the door. The tavern grows silent at their entrance. Clopin does not show any kind of discernable emotion. He keeps on picking at his glove, humming a tune to himself.  
  
One walks over to the bartender, grabbing him by the collar.  
  
"What have you been told about allowing this kind of scum into your tavern?" He growls. The bartender says nothing, merely stares defiantly at them.  
  
I keep my eyes to the floor.  
  
The guards walk from patron to patron, looking them up and down. I freeze when they get to me, thinking that any moment they will take my fiddle, smash it over their knee, slit my throat and my brother's.  
  
But they pass on. I'm just another gypsy girl. I breathe again.  
  
Inevitably they pause in front of Clopin. He pretends they aren't there, keeps humming and examining his glove.  
  
"Show some respect!" The guard snarls, kicking Clopin's chair out from under him. Clopin stays standing, muscles tense as he holds himself in the same sitting position, completely ignoring the guards.  
  
I don't know whether to think him incredibly brave or incredibly stupid.  
  
"Stealing my chair, how rude! I think you should get me another." Clopin says indignantly.  
  
"Gypsy scum." One of them sneers, lifting a hand to cuff Clopin across the face. Clopin immediately dodges the blow, grinning up at the guard. This only infuriates him further and he goes to strike again.  
  
Clopin is too fast, too springy. He dodges that blow without having to move from the bar.  
  
I hear laughter very near to me, low drunken laughter, and I get a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach.  
  
"Stupid black beasts." The voice slurs, and his head, wet with ale and his own sweat, glances up at them. Ferdain.  
  
Ferdain, dear God, you fool.  
  
Clopin pauses, watching the guards very carefully.  
  
They do exactly as they did in my nightmares. They yank my brother out of his chair. One slams his fist into Ferdain's stomach. The other kicks him in the back. Ferdain falls, the wind knocked out of him. He can only let out small choking noises.  
  
The other three guards draw their swords, daring anyone to help Ferdain.  
  
I whimper, reaching out for him, too afraid to take an actual step forwards.  
  
"He's drunk. Leave him be. Fight a sober man if it's a fight you want." Clopin says simply. His voice is like iron, unflinching and unnerved. The guards ignore him and continue beating poor Ferdain.  
  
With every hit and moan of my brother I jump.  
  
Clopin thinks clearly. His eyes go round the room, counting the number of gypsies and the number of guards, calculating in his head who would win and how much damage would be done.  
  
Slowly his hand goes to his pocket.  
  
"You there! Keep your hands where I can see them." Clopin grins manically.  
  
"As you wish, Monsieur." There is a brilliant flash as Clopin throws down whatever was in his hand. Smoke fills the tavern, and I hear the guards coughing and rubbing their eyes. I see the feet of every gypsy running toward the exit under the cover of smoke. Clopin grabs my arm and together we drag Ferdain out the door.  
  
"I knew you were good at getting into trouble, little fiddler." He says dryly as we move back towards the Court of Miracle with Ferdain on our shoulders. 


	6. Concernant L'un L'autre

"I said I was sorry, Evalyne! You don't need to try to make it hurt!" Ferdain protests as I sew up a wound on his arm.  
  
"If it hurts it's your own fault." I snap back. "You should count yourself lucky that guard didn't slit your throat, and pray that I don't do it for him."  
  
I am so cruel to him when he is so foolish, but Ferdain learns no other way.  
  
Ferdain makes a person learn many useful skills: medicine, cleaning, mending, how to escape with a 24 year old on your shoulder, how to successfully scold him when you are safe.  
  
"Really, Evalyne-"Ferdain says, hacking and coughing, a result of the vicious kick to his lungs. "I'm very, very sorry." I sigh.  
  
"Good. Stay sorry and perhaps you'll remember this next time we pass a tavern, which probably won't be for a very long time." He looks at the ground sorrowfully, as if this is a great loss to him. I get up and take my fiddle.  
  
"Are you going out again?" I smirk at him.  
  
"Obviously we're not staying in Paris for very long, so I'd better get to work while I still can." I duck out of the tent and stop to talk to Antessa.  
  
She is rapidly becoming my good friend here in Paris.  
  
"I heard about your fool of a brother." She says, shaking her head.  
  
"He'll be all right. As long as I don't try to murder him next."  
  
"He doesn't seem as though he would challenge a songbird let alone a Parisian guard."  
  
"He wouldn't. Only when he's drunk." Ferdain becomes the devil himself when drunk. I become the devil when playing.  
  
Eventually the devil shows up in all of us.  
  
"I'm betting those brutes had it coming, though." Antessa's voice is hard, and she stares at some spot far off in the distance, like she's recalling some intricate memory.  
  
"It can't go on much longer." She says desperately, leaning forward and talking to me as though I can do something about it. "It's getting to be too much. The stares and the snarls you get when you go out there, the way they hate your children-"Her words catch in her throat and she pauses to collect herself. "My husband can't keep himself contained for much longer. If they insult him or kick him out of a building once more, he'll burst. You can only let them murder you so many times."  
  
Something is rotten in the city of Paris, and I have a creeping feeling that I will find out about it first hand. Antessa is so sincere, so full of pain. I feel for these gypsies, who live in a lovely court underneath a lovely city but are persecuted the moment they enter it.  
  
I don't know that pain of being rejected in your home. Ferdain and I have no home.  
  
"I suspect you've had your share of run-ins with locals who don't like you very much." Antessa says; finally back to her conversational self.  
  
"We aren't as brave, I'm afraid. Ferdain and I cower the moment they give us a nasty look. We're not very courageous gypsies." Antessa shrugs.  
  
"Sometimes to be careful is a far better thing. And still I'd think you'd be a regular spitfire to those guards up there, considering your parents and the way you're inclined to treat certain goateed gypsy kings."  
  
Must he invade everywhere? Even in my everyday conversation? Apparently Clopin is not refused often, so my disinterest must be something of a shock to this Court.  
  
"If something happens to me, Ferdain is lost. He wouldn't know what to do with himself. He'd waste away. I don't have the luxury of sticking my neck out when I get spit upon. While our parents were very brave and I honor their memory, I don't want to end up dead as they did." Antessa laughs.  
  
"You're a very funny person, Evalyne. In some ways you're sensible and completely reserved. In others you are fearless and daring."  
  
Everyone is a contradiction. I am both foolhardy and sensible. Ferdain is both kind-hearted and stubborn.  
  
Clopin is both irritating and amusing.  
  
I leave Antessa and make my way back up to the city. Paris is beautiful in the morning. I wander around for a while, not too eager to disturb the air with my playing.  
  
There's a certain feeling to a sunny morning, all the people beginning their days. Everyone is happy, full of promise. The events haven't yet happened- the day is not yet a bad one. It still has all the potential of being good. No one hates me for being a gypsy yet. I do not hate anyone for hating me yet.  
  
I come upon Clopin and his cart. He's already started. Children sent out to do morning chores, collect the day's supplies and food are already getting distracted and spending the money that is supposed to be for their families to hear another of Clopin's tales.  
  
"What shall it be today, little ones? Adventure?" Puppet hops out of nowhere, slicing the air with a stick. Clopin leans out over them, his black eyes shining from within his mask.  
  
"Tragedy?" Puppet cries.  
  
"Comedy?" Puppet laughs, holding his sides.  
  
"Romance?" Puppet kisses Clopin on the nose. Clopin feigns shock and taps Puppet on the head. The children laugh.  
  
Of course they want every bit of it. It really doesn't matter what Clopin says- he could recite the alphabet and they would leap into the air with joy.  
  
I am off to the side of the cart, and so Clopin does not see me as he begins his tale. I wander closer, but hide behind the cart. I don't want to distract his audience.  
  
He is amazing, I'll give him that much. Even I want to know what happens next.  
  
But just as Clopin gets closer to the climax, several mothers and fathers come out. They call to their children, glaring at Clopin suspiciously. They can't believe their children would be so intrigued by a mere gypsy. Of course he must be the devil. Of course it must be a spell. No gypsy could be so talented.  
  
The thought of his energetic talent going to waste angers me. I lift my fiddle and begin to play from behind the cart. The children ignore their parents, laughing and clapping, believing that somehow Clopin is making music without any kind of instrument. I can't see the look on his face, but he only hesitates a moment before continuing with his tale.  
  
I keep my music consistent with what he says. Sad music for a sad moment, fast for an exciting moment. Sometimes he tries to test me, spontaneously changing the mood and seeing if I can keep up.  
  
He finishes the tale and I finish my playing. The children give him all their coins, begging for another story.  
  
"Perhaps later, little ones! I've someone I need to fiddle with right now." He says loudly to the back of the cart. They are all too dazzled to care about their parents or the lack of another story and go skipping off.  
  
I come around to the front. Clopin grins, leaning on his elbows.  
  
"Well Cherie, at the very least you are not stealing my audience. I don't need any help keeping them, however." He's stuck between being glad I enhanced his performance and irritated that I thought it needed enhancing.  
  
I shrug, tapping out a tune with my fingers on the cart.  
  
"Maybe I just felt like playing." Clopin rolls his eyes at me.  
  
"Even being friends with you takes work, I see."  
  
"Not work. A bit of tolerance. A lot of patience." He laughs.  
  
"And a good sense of humor, no?" He reaches out idly to grab my hand, the tapping fingers becoming annoying, but I deftly fiddle them out of his way.  
  
"How is that brother of yours?" He asks.  
  
"Not any wiser. But thank you for helping to get him out of there. I wouldn't have known what to do." He chases my fingers around the top of the cart, but I keep making imaginary leaps on the strings.  
  
"Kings do not abandon their people, even if they are temporary or foolish."  
  
"However did you become King?" I ask. He chuckles.  
  
"Clopin fought hundreds upon hundreds of envious gypsies for his right to rule! Along the way he charmed all of their wives and tricked the entire Parisian guard out of their annual salary!"  
  
"At least," He adds, "That's what I tell my audience."  
  
No one can rival him for a story, even if it's entirely impossible. He has a way of making you believe that whatever he says is the truth.  
  
"And what's the real story?" He finally claps his hand over mine but I continue to move my fingers underneath his hand.  
  
"A simple case of inheritance. My father was king, and naturally I took over after he died." He says 'died' like its 'flown away'- something physically impossible.  
  
"They didn't accept me right off. It took some doing to convince them that I could lead as well as he had."  
  
"What did you have to do?" My voice is a bit too eager to hear. He laughs.  
  
"If I tell you all my stories now, little fiddler, you won't talk to me anymore." I stare at him for a moment.  
  
Then, without any warning, I yank my hand out from under his and continue tapping away on the cart.  
  
"I think there is a demon in your fingers, Cherie." Clopin says teasingly, watching them dance about. Suddenly Puppet raps me on the knuckles with his stick.  
  
"Naughty boy!" Clopin admonishes him. I glare at them both.  
  
"She's giving us an evil eye, Puppet. Do you suppose we are cursed?" He says conspiratorially.  
  
"If I cannot play tomorrow-"I say with a look of death in my eyes.  
  
Sometimes I over exaggerate as Ferdain does.  
  
"Rubbish!" Clopin declares, and Puppet is out of sight before I can even realize he is gone. "You would play even if you had no hands, Evalyne."  
  
I've had my fill of Clopin Troullifou for today. I turn and start walking away.  
  
"You haven't even played yet." I look up. He is standing in front of me, though how he got there I don't know. I walk around him.  
  
"Unless you want to be competing with me for coin all day, I'd better go somewhere else."  
  
"How will you play without your fiddle?" I realize that there is nothing in my hands. Clopin has somehow snatched my fiddle, and I have only my bow. I jab it into his chin as if it's a very sharp sword.  
  
We stand like this for a moment or two.  
  
"Did the devil give you this as a reward for your eternal service to him?" He says, glancing down at the fiddle.  
  
"Ferdain got it for me, actually." He stares at me in half-shock.  
  
It even surprises me that my lazy brother should be the start of the thing my life revolves around, but it's true enough. Ferdain stole it for me years and years ago, when we were just children.  
  
This is probably why I put up with him, protect him, allow him to continue to be so lazy and troublesome.  
  
This is probably why I still love him.  
  
Clopin hands it back to me, but not before seizing my bow and yanking a few hairs from it.  
  
"You horrible gypsy." I mutter, inspecting it for damage.  
  
"I'm sure you'll snatch away any decent parts of my soul before you're done, little fiddler," He says with a devilish grin. "Consider that an equal exchange- a piece of yours for a piece of mine." 


	7. Rire Obtenu Malade

In my sleep I dream of warmth. I dream of happiness at the pleasure of rest. I dream of my fiddle, playing to the applause of hundreds, maybe thousands. I dream of playing my fiddle for only myself, in a solitary field somewhere in France.  
  
A strange noise invades my playing. I pause and glance at the instrument. Nothing at fault with it...  
  
The noise grates on my ears again. I listen carefully. It is a scratching noise, rough and abrasive. It begins to grow in intensity, hacking away at my ears.  
  
Hacking...  
  
I open my eyes, yawning and squinting at the sudden onslaught of light from a candle. The noise was not a part of my dream. Rather, it comes from the figure curled up next to me, that of Ferdain.  
  
I groggily push myself up to see whatever is the matter with him.  
  
Ferdain is shivering under the blankets, coughing and hacking into his hands, violently shooting his head back with every cough.  
  
"Ferdain." I murmur, crawling over to him.  
  
"Evalyne-"He manages to say before a spasm and another cough overtake him.  
  
"I think I may have forgotten the chills that can frequent Paris." His voice is halting. I feel his forehead. He is not too hot, not horribly sick. I still feel a twinge of guilt at my harsh words to him the other morning now that he is not feeling well.  
  
I sense that I will probably regret my decision, but I smile kindly at Ferdain.  
  
"You might do better with some food and drink in you. Come, the evening has just begun. We'll go to the tavern." His eyes light up.  
  
"And not a drop of liquor will you touch." I add, holding up a finger to his face menacingly. His face falls a bit. "The fire and the company will do you much better than that vile drink you're so fond of." He smirks.  
  
"All right Evalyne, I promise." I help him up and get him a glass of water before exiting the tent to try and wake myself up.  
  
I wander about the Court of Miracles. It is not horribly late, nearing the midnight hour. Gypsy encampments are never completely silent, but it is still much quieter than it would be during the daylight hours. My friend Antessa must be asleep with her husband and children. I pass her tent, wishing she were awake so I could talk with her.  
  
I watch a couple flirting away in a hidden corner of the catacombs. I smile slightly at the young man's words of love to his lady.  
  
I finally reach the "main square" as one could call it, of the Court of Miracles. I pause for a moment in front of the gallows, set up auspiciously at the edge of the area: not the focus of attention but could easily draw it.  
  
Clopin must use these gallows from time to time. To execute the poor fools who find their way down here and fail to realize what they're discovered until it's too late. It's strange that such a man, a happy golden storyteller with a silly smirk could just as happily hang a man by his neck until he was dead to the great amusement of his subjects.  
  
Mama. I only allow myself to think of her for a moment. I would not allow myself to think of her hanging; I forced myself to think of her smiles, her kind words and even gentle discipline. I couldn't miss my father in same way I often missed my mother. He had been a good father as far as he was able, but as was custom he busied himself with Ferdain, trying to make him into a man, showing him the ways of the world.  
  
What kind of man would Ferdain have been if Papa had had a few more years?  
  
"I'm waiting for my medicinal fire and company, Evalyne." I hear my brother's voice, a little more raspy than usual, behind me. I join him and together we make our way up into the city and towards the tavern. We are careful to avoid the guards, so as not to alert them to yet another gypsy gathering.  
  
The tavern is, as usual, bright and welcoming. The gypsies converse, laugh and drink as if the other evening's raid had never happened. I get the feeling raids such as that are regular occurrences around Paris.  
  
Ferdain and I seat ourselves at a table. We sit there in silence until Ferdain tries to sigh in exasperation and ends up coughing instead.  
  
"I fail to see what your fire and company are doing for me, especially when it's only your company I have." He pouts. I narrow my eyes.  
  
"If you'd rather never set foot in a tavern again, that can be arranged." He reaches for a mug near to him, completely ignoring me. I slap his hand away.  
  
"Cherie, it seems you are more a mother than a sister, no? Keeping a man from his drink, shame." The King of the Gypsies sits down to join us, drinking from his own mug. Ferdain eyes it.  
  
"Do not even dream of it." I say, staring at him. He eyes me for a moment and then deftly slips a pitcher off the tray of a serving girl walking by. Ferdain is so swift and silent that the girl never notices and continues to walk toward the kitchen with her empty tray. I paw wildly at the pitcher but Ferdain holds it out of my reach. Triumphant, he looks in it.  
  
It is only water. Clopin and I laugh as Ferdain scowls and drops it on the table.  
  
"I offer a toast to your magnificent skills of stealth, Monsieur Ferdain, despite your inability to steal that which you desire." Clopin says regally, holding his mug near Ferdain's nose and snatching it away to drink again before Ferdain can drink from it. Ferdain finally pours himself a glass of water and mutters away to himself amid coughs.  
  
"What brings the King of the Gypsies to this humble tavern?" I murmur. Clopin shrugs and takes another swig.  
  
"A sleepless night, Cherie. And a longing for other pleasures..." He trails off, watching the serving girl, who I now notice has a more than considerably gifted figure, serving drinks.  
  
I suddenly feel much older, as if Ferdain is my unruly boy and the serving girl is the young girl I once was.  
  
I reach my hand back behind my head to where the scroll of my fiddle pokes out of my pack. I run my fingers along the designs and pluck the end of the strings absentmindedly.  
  
The serving girl wanders by Clopin and he steps on the trailing tie of her apron. It falls off and she turns to see Clopin, the golden swaggering king, holding it out to her, eyebrow raised and a smirk on his face.  
  
I feel for my bow, fingering the hairs for a moment.  
  
The girl blushes, giggles, and reaches out for her apron. Clopin kisses her outstretched hand before handing it back to her. He and Ferdain exchange leers and knowing smirks as she runs off to titter with the other serving girls.  
  
I absentmindedly fiddle a tune on the table with my fingernails. The girl reminds me too much of myself in younger days. I cannot blame Clopin for her foolishness, but a part of me wishes that she won't indulge him later, that I can maybe stop her from doing so.  
  
Clopin tickles my fingers with the feather in his hat, throwing me off the tune.  
  
"You're not bored, little fiddler?" He says in mock disbelief.  
  
A drunkard behind me falls off his chair, cackling like a madman. I raise an eyebrow at Clopin.  
  
He watches the man struggle to get back up and laughs.  
  
"Your point is taken, Cherie. Come then, let's find excitement elsewhere."  
  
"And what of your friend?" I murmur, eyeing the blushing girl in the corner. Clopin turns and winks at her, then turns back to wink at me.  
  
"Oh, don't worry on my account. I assure you she will be quite willing to wait a night or so."  
  
"What of Ferdain, then?" I add, nodding towards my brother, who eyes me murderously.  
  
"If I were a proper older brother, Evalyne..." He says, trying to sound menacing while sipping his glass of water.  
  
"Very well," Clopin turns to him. "Ferdain, your sharp little sister and I are going off to seek our deaths. May we trust you not to get horribly drunk and instead find other pleasures?" He raises his eyebrows at my brother as if it is some sort of signal between them. Ferdain blushes and I suddenly understand. I laugh as he splashes some water at me.  
  
"Do go easy on her, my dear, suave, debonair, elder brother!" He blushes even redder. I rise to follow Clopin.  
  
"And you'd better leave that here, unless you want it to get broken." He says, pulling my fiddle out of my pack.  
  
LEAVE my fiddle?  
  
I have never left it anywhere. That I brought it to the tavern with me in the middle of the night only goes to prove that. The gypsy King holds it high above my head as I jump for it.  
  
"You're mad if you think I'll leave it anywhere." I say in between jumps. He tosses it to Ferdain, who throws it haphazardly onto the table.  
  
"Dear Monsieur Ferdain, may we also entrust this sacred piece of wood to you?" He says, dripping with sarcasm as he pulls me towards the door.  
  
"Ferdain, if you break it, if there is even a scratch-"I yell back at him. He waves me away.  
  
"Yes, yes, you'll crush my bones to make your bread, boil my blood for your wine- I get the general idea!" He calls back, laughing at me.  
  
Clopin is already outside, leaning against the building. He leaps up as I exit.  
  
"What is your fanatical devotion with that fiddle? Is it possessed by the devil? Blessed by God, what?"  
  
Clopin is good company, but he doesn't understand.  
  
"Were I to break those legs of yours, Clopin the acrobat, then maybe you'd understand."  
  
"Ah, but I would still have my voice!" He sings out loudly. I shush him and he only laughs louder.  
  
"And his stories!" Puppet exclaims in my face for a moment before disappearing.  
  
"Evalyne would not have much if you broke her fiddle." I reply tersely.  
  
"That is your problem, Cherie." Clopin says seriously. He doesn't elaborate. I follow him through the city until we reach a locked gate deep within an alley.  
  
Clopin and I clamber over it. It is a dark courtyard. Trees and bushes are everywhere, but it is a cold, lifeless garden.  
  
I feel a shiver go up my back, though I don't know if it's from fear or excitement. The gigantic black building that the courtyard ends at is the Palace of Justice.  
  
"Adventurous, no?" Clopin whispers, grinning.  
  
"Foolish too." I answer softly, but I'm smiling.  
  
I am in a place that is horribly dangerous, but I'm enjoying myself very well, and not very frightened. This probably has to do with Clopin, who is smelling the flowers and picking leaves as if it all belonged to him.  
  
I gaze up at the stars for a moment. When I look down, Clopin is gone.  
  
"Clopin?" I whisper. The excitement and adventure have long since faded. I take one tentative step into the moonlight.  
  
There are suddenly hands gripping my shoulders, I whirl around, my mouth open to scream, but it is only Clopin, who claps his gloved hand over my mouth, and nearly dies in a fit of laughter. I glare at him until he motions for me to follow him. We climb back over the wall and into the city. Once safely away from the Palace, he lets out side-splitting laughter so loud I am surprised the entire city doesn't awaken.  
  
"That was not funny in the slightest!" I hiss. He only laughs harder  
  
"Ah Cherie, your face was priceless! Worth a king's ransom!" He says through gasps. I fold my arms and try to stay angry. But if there is one thing I have learned about Clopin Trouillefou, it is that it is impossible to stay upset around him for very long.  
  
We reach the tavern again, which has become somewhat quieter, now sheltering only the irrevocably drunk and the storytellers. I look around for my fiddle and see it nowhere- Ferdain is gone. I turn to Clopin.  
  
"Has he joined your friend then?" Clopin motions towards the girl herself, in animated conversation with a fellow by the fire.  
  
So. Ferdain has disappeared. With my fiddle.  
  
I utter a vile curse and storm out. 


	8. Douleur Pour Toutes Les Sortes

Clopin stays silent on our journey back to the Court of Miracles. Wise of him. Even a King knows when his humor and silliness would be ill-met.  
  
Halfway back I begin to worry about Ferdain, another twinge of guilt that my first thought was for my fiddle and not for my unfortunate brother. Anger argues back that he had no right to disappear. If he has gotten himself into another ridiculous situation, or forgotten my fiddle in some alley, I cannot begin to think of a way to exact revenge.  
  
We reach the court and Clopin stops me for a moment.  
  
"Do not be too hasty to condemn him, Evalyne." I can only glower at him before shrugging him off and continuing on my own to the tent. I pause for a moment before entering.  
  
Half of me hopes he is in there so I don't have to worry any more. The other half of me hopes he isn't, that he truly has proven what an idiot he is once and for all. I grit my teeth, ready to loose hell upon him and enter the tent.  
  
I see nothing but our host's belongings for a moment. My fiddle lies in the corner, upside down as if it had been dropped. I run to it and pick it up, inspecting it for damage. Nothing is amiss, if not a little out of tune. Sobered a little, I put it back down and turn around. There, in the corner of the tent, curled up with his back to me, is Ferdain. I had not noticed him amid the other curled up baskets and piles of things. I charge over and shake him roughly. He reeks of drink.  
  
"Just like you, following your own fool ideas and never listening to me!" I snap at him. He ignores me. I shake him again.  
  
Some little tightness in my throat clenches harder until I feel something snap.  
  
"Ferdain I mean it! I am through with getting you out of trouble and letting you make a fool of yourself!" I am yelling now, so loudly that it is a wonder our host doesn't arise and yell back. "I am tired of watching for you and making sure you don't end up with a noose about your neck! I am tired of having to get you food and find a place to stay and yelling at you!"  
  
"I'll leave Ferdain!" I have uttered the words many a time, but never have they sounded so harsh.  
  
Or so final.  
  
"I'll leave you and you see how long you survive without my providing everything for you, you horrible child of a man!" I finish, falling back onto my knees from the force of my rant.  
  
I should leave him. What has he ever provided for me? He is supposedly my elder brother, a man, but you would never know it to look at him. All he has ever given me are worries and troubles.  
  
"Haven't you anything to say for yourself?" I snap. Ferdain ignores me still. Angry, I pull on him, rolling him over to face me.  
  
My brother's face is as pale as death. His brown eyes pleadingly stare up at me. He shivers and his breathing is ragged. Tears trail from his eyes.  
  
"My God, Ferdain, what has happened to you?" I cry, my hand flying to my throat.  
  
"Evalyne..." He moans, his fingers grasping my cloak. I pull him into my arms, beginning to weep.  
  
How could I have said such things? How could I?  
  
"Don't leave Evalyne." He whines, hacking and coughing into my shoulder. When he pulls away there is blood on his lips.  
  
"Oh, Ferdain, I will never leave. I promise." I murmur into his ear.  
  
Guilt pervades every inch of me as all the times I've considered getting up in the middle of the night and leaving come back to haunt me. I love my brother. He needs me, and I need him. He is my family, and for a gypsy, family is hard to come by.  
  
"I didn't have a drop, I swear." He rasps. I smile at him. I don't know whether he is telling the truth, but it doesn't matter anymore.  
  
"It's all right Ferdain. Lie down and sleep. I won't let anything happen to you." He again doesn't listen to me and pushes himself up, wiping sweat off his brow.  
  
"This is no mere chill." I say, feeling his forehead. His eyes close as he begins to wheeze.  
  
"My chest..." He rubs his torso and my mind immediately flies back to a few nights ago, the night the guards so savagely abused him. That was when this all started. Something in my brother's body has been broken or made ill from that horrid beast's blows.  
  
"How did you get back here?" I ask softly. Ferdain opens his eyes.  
  
"Very slowly and very painfully. I left not long after you did." He manages two sentences before closing his eyes again.  
  
"Ferdain?" I repeat. My brother slumps back to the floor, unconscious.  
  
Fear and worry give me speed, and I rush out of the tent, screaming Clopin's name. He is nowhere in sight. I run amid the tents, looking for some sign of which one is his, uncaring as to whether I awaken the entire camp or not.  
  
A hand finally grabs my wrist, freezing me in mid-run and wrenching me backwards.  
  
"Have you gone mad, woman?" It is Clopin, but he does not look amused. "I may be willing to listen to your heretical shrieking by day, Cherie, but I will not have you awakening my entire kingdom at night with them. If you are not careful you will make many enemies even if you are here temporarily" He says in a low regal voice, suddenly becoming every inch the king as the King of France himself. For a moment I want to bow my head in repentance and respect but then I remember why I am running about screaming his name.  
  
"Please, Clopin, Ferdain is sick. Horribly sick...I don't know what to do. Please, you must help!" His grip on my wrist instantly vanishes.  
  
"I apologize, Evalyne. I have no tricks of medicine or healing. You must go to the healer." He motions me to follow and he runs off towards the edge of the underground encampment. I follow, struggling to keep up. He finally reaches a tent ideally placed under a section of catacombs that reaches up to the sky, letting in a bit of moonlight. The healer's tent has an almost heavenly glow of purity, making me believe that whoever the healer is, she must be able to do something for Ferdain.  
  
An older gypsy woman, with a ring of gold in her ear and a tooth missing from her mouth, peeks out of the tent at the sound of the jingling bells on Clopin's hat.  
  
"Not another spiked by the guards?" She says, hunched over a little.  
  
"Your skills are needed by a less brave man, but a man in need all the less, Madame." I hear no name follow the title, but as I see the respectful way Clopin addresses her, how he tips his head to acknowledge her words, I see that this particular Madame must be a widely honored one.  
  
"Ah, the fiddler of the court," she remarks upon seeing me. I bow my head as quickly as I can without being disrespectful.  
  
"It is my poor brother who requires your aid, Madame. Will you not come quickly?"  
  
"We shall see what I can do for him. Though from what I hear of his work ethic, I may not be able to cure him in that respect." I can't help but smile at her reassuring words. For an elderly woman with somewhat of a hunch, she is surprisingly quick on her feet, keeping up with the spry Clopin and I as we hurry back to Ferdain.  
  
We find my brother lying under his blanket, awake, but still pale and sweating feverishly. Madame kneels next to him, taking a bundle out from within the folds of her skirt.  
  
"Young man, can you hear me?" She says kindly. Ferdain smiles thinly.  
  
"Very well for one so old." He rasps. I glare at him, ready to tell him to hold his impudent tongue. But the Madame only laughs.  
  
"I'll allow that for the moment, as it means you are not perhaps ready to meet the devil just yet." She sets about feeling his neck and looking into his eyes, touching his forehead and muttering to herself. I have no knowledge of medicine, except perhaps the care of a few odd cuts and bruises. Clopin and I only watch with bated breath. Madame finally reaches Ferdain's stomach and he cries out in pain, clutching his blanket.  
  
"It is in his insides that this illness has spread itself." She announces.  
  
"He had a run-in with the guards a few nights past." I offer. She nods.  
  
"This very well may be the cause of it. Something, though it is beyond my skills to know what, is pervading his stomach, his lungs, eating away at him perhaps. You must keep him well-fed, especially when he is this pale grayish color, which cannot be healthy." She begins to rip pieces of various plants within her bundle apart, mashing them into a paste and adding water.  
  
"He must drink this every night. It is said to ease the lungs and absorb any poison." She makes my brother swallow some, though he grimaces at the taste. "You must keep him well-fed. Too little food and the sickness could devour him. He is nearly skin and bones already." I notice for the first time my brother's gaunt appearance, and I curse myself for being so irritated with him lately to not pay attention.  
  
I try to thank her for her kindness but something sticks in my throat and I can only nod and blink back my tears. She pats my shoulder kindly.  
  
"Do not despair, young lady. In the end, both you and your brother will be healed of what ails you." She turns back to Ferdain one last time.  
  
"And you, young man, must mind what I have told you and get well, if only to rid your sister of her worries." She says firmly. Ferdain smiles weakly at her, coughing.  
  
The Madame gives a final appraising look, and exits the tent.  
  
I suddenly realize my hand has been in Clopin's the entire time. He releases it without a word and it feels strange that the warm feeling should be gone, and stranger still that I did not notice it until now.  
  
"Don't worry little fiddler. Madame is very wise and there is not a gypsy among this Court that has proven her wrong. Should you need anything more, do not hesitate to ask her." He smiles one last time at me and leaves to return to his bed.  
  
I look at my brother, asleep finally but his usual snoring replaced by an irregular and grating wheeze. I curl myself up next to him, clinging to his arm, feeling the warmth, the sign of life, coming from his body. I close my eyes.  
  
"Don't leave, Ferdain." 


	9. Calme Avant L'Orage

"Bravo!" I hear the little shouts of the children, no doubt imitating the shouts of their parents. But they mostly giggle and clap at my song, and point at the bright scraps of ribbon I've attached to the scroll of the fiddle.  
  
I strike a wrong note and mentally reprimand myself. My mind is on other things, but I force it to concentrate on the task at hand: Winning enough money to feed my brother back into health.  
  
Ferdain has slowly been improving, but if I do not feed him well each day, he relapses into his pale state of broken breathing.  
  
As I finish the song, the children applaud and most go scampering off to complete whatever task they were distracted from. A few toss coins, and I pick them up with a sigh. The city is getting poorer, and thus it's people and my income have begun to dwindle. Finding the money to feed both of us is getting increasingly harder.  
  
"Shame that the only payoff for such a performance is a few coins, eh Mademoiselle?" My head rises suspiciously. Such playful remarks usually come from Clopin Troullifou, but this voice is low and somewhat rougher. I find that the owner of it is an older man with the beginnings of a white beard and a broad hat on his head. He does not appear to be a gypsy, and is certainly not a guard. Gypsies, however, are not usually approached by random townspeople. I hold my fiddle protectively at my side.  
  
"Many thanks for your compliments sir." The man laughs softly, coming closer to me. His bright blue eyes twinkle at me from his dirty face and beard, and I have a feeling that those eyes once had a very active life. I remember that I have seen him before. He has always been in the background of my performances, but I have never taken him for anything more than a townsperson with a similar schedule to mine.  
  
"You've talent I've rarely seen, in either Parisian or gypsy." I blush.  
  
It is kind to get such praise, as most gypsies have not the ear and most of the _gadji_ do not listen. Better still to get it from the usually hostile townsfolk.  
  
"You are most kind."  
  
"Are you educated?" I shoot him a nasty look, but he only laughs.  
  
"Your technical skill, mademoiselle, have you been educated in the ways of your instrument?"  
  
I was never taught to play my fiddle. I have learned it on my own, from many hours of frustration and from watching the performances of others. Ferdain and I have never stayed in a place long enough for any kind of regular instruction. Every moment I play, I can feel the mistakes I know I am making but have no idea how to correct. Most do not notice. But I do.  
  
"Only by imitation, sir." The old man grins, and I notice a gold tooth in his smile.  
  
"You use too little of the bow, for one thing. Your intonation is sublime but you occasionally rush your pieces." I eye my fiddle and then eye the gentleman. He has obviously studied the instrument before. The way his blue eyes set upon it only makes me believe this more.  
  
"Monsieur Everard, mademoiselle. And I hope you'll take my advice." Without another word, Everard tips his fraying hat and walks down the winding paths of the city.  
  
I pick up my shawl and pack and begin my journey home.

* * *

Today's performance begins and ends quickly, as I discover that to play near the cathedral of Notre Dame is not appreciated by the holy men who occupy it. I do not begrudge them this: I understand why such things are sacred, despite my lack of belief in them.  
  
To my great surprise, Monsieur Everard has again turned out to watch me. He leans against the stone walls of the cathedral, holding some books in his arms.  
  
"You have improved." I have noticed no difference, but I am beginning to think that this man may know more about my talents than anyone else.  
  
"You must put more emotion into your playing," He says, lifting up a book in each arm and imitating the motions of the fiddle. "Forget that you play for the townspeople, for their meager earnings. Play as though you play for all you hold dear."  
  
Everard again tips his hat, and again exits without a word.  
  
This continues for many days. I realize that Everard must have attended all my performances, and I wonder that I had never noticed him before. Each day he offers new advice, and the day after I subconsciously take it.  
  
Ferdain is skeptical. I mix his herb medicine as he snorts in protest.  
  
"Evalyne, he's a crazy old man from Paris. He is not those men you speak of, that Bach fellow or Handel whomever-"He pronounces both wrong.  
  
"He may not be them but he obviously understands them, Ferdain." I say, raising an eyebrow at him. He folds his arms and, as he always does when faced with his own ignorance, pouts.  
  
I reach for my rosin and rub it on his nose. He sputters and tries to brush it off as I laugh.  
  
Life is good. As good at it can get for a gypsy, at any rate.

* * *

Clopin meets me the next evening as I am heading back to the Court.  
  
"Ah, the fiddler of my court. How goes the beguiling of Parisian children?" I smile, balancing my bow upon my finger as I walk.  
  
"Perhaps well enough to even rival you, O King." Clopin smiles devilishly as Puppet suddenly makes an appearance. The stick he holds in his little wooden hands strikes my bow, breaking the balance.  
  
"Naughty Puppet! You should not court battles with little girl musicians." I make a face of mock outrage and engage Puppet in a swordfight, using my bow as the weapon.  
  
"You must fight me, dear Puppet, if only to protect the honor of your King, who obviously cannot do so himself." Clopin simultaneously glares and smirks at me, making for a very odd, scrunched up look on his face.  
  
"You're in high spirits, Cherie. That brother of yours must be getting better." I can only smile in response.  
  
"He has promised to return to the land of living once more tomorrow morning." Even I must admit that I have missed my brother with me during the long days. His usually cheerful demeanor and complete lack of worry has kept me cheerful many a day when the threats of townsfolk marred my ego and my performances.  
  
"Might I ask, Evalyne," Clopin begins, clasping his hands behind his back and affecting a leisurely stride. "How long do you intend to stay in Paris?"  
  
I narrow my eyes at him.  
  
"If you wish us to leave your Court, Clopin, you need only say the word." He smiles, staring up at the sky.  
  
In this moment he looks every bit as kingly as any legitimate one; proud, wise, and burdened.  
  
"No, Cherie. I don't wish you to leave." We stay silent for the rest of our return to the Court. 


End file.
